


Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore

by imaginationtherapy



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Degüello, Episode Related, Gift Fic, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Endeavour Morse, Hurt Max DeBryn, Hurt/Comfort, I don't write sad endings, M/M, Max POV, Max is having a bad day, Not-So-Secret Santa, Period-Typical Homophobia, Spoilers, deathbed confessions, he needs some time to deal with this, i'm back on my bullshit impulse posting lads, in the introspective variety, just really sad stories with happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21892195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginationtherapy/pseuds/imaginationtherapy
Summary: Max DeBryn is familiar with violence. He knows what marks it leaves on the human body, and he's used to interpreting the results it. He is no stranger to grief either, it comes readily attached to his line of work.But Max is a complete stranger to the ropes that bite into his skin and the throbbing pain in his skull. And he's never watched as his colleague--friend--Morsecrumples to the ground with a bullet in his chest.
Relationships: Max DeBryn/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 36
Kudos: 96





	1. (Wish I Had) The Strength to Let it Show

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iloveyoudie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/gifts).



> So I managed to miss signing up for the Morseverse Secret Santa this year, but I decided to write something anyhow. I am 100% terrified of writing Max DeBryn because I _adore_ him and am _so scared_ of getting him wrong. But this idea took root, and I decided it was a perfect gift fic. 
> 
> Thanks for all you do for this fandom, [ iloveyoudie ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/pseuds/iloveyoudie), and I hope you enjoy this!

Max DeBryn was no stranger to violence. He made his living by reading the patterns wrought by fists and knives and bullets. He was well used to the sight and smell of blood--crusted around old wounds or flowing freely from a close call that ended poorly. He could stomach the sight of battered bodies, had learned to distance himself from the pain by necessity. He knew where to turn when the victim’s faces blurred together before him, haunting his sleep and slowing his movements. He wasn’t quite sure how to erase the memory of the sight of a raised club as it descended upon him.

Max wasn’t afraid to face the sights and sounds and smells that surrounded the men who stood just beyond him. He was well used to waiting on coppers--like the ones just on the edges of his line of sight-- to swoop in and see justice done. Max just wasn’t used to being the one in need of rescuing.

Max was used to the feel of blood on his gloved hands, not caked about his temples. He knew the way rope looked after having bitten into the skin for hours; now he knew how it _felt_. He had gently removed torn bits of cloth from gagged victims, but he’d never known the frustration of being unable to shout. He could easily recite the effects of fear and adrenaline on one’s systems, but he was unused to the icy fire which shot through his veins.

All told, he would rather not repeat the experience. 

_It’s alright, Doctor. We’ll have you home safe soon._

He meant well, Max knew. Meant to calm him, meant to reassure him that he wasn’t alone. But Max was no innocent, no stranger to how these things went. It was a dangerous standoff that was unfolding before him, blurry and faded for lack of his glasses. At least Morse wasn’t alone, as he had been when Max first heard his voice. At least Thursday wasn’t too far gone to give up on his bagman. At least Bright had recovered a bit of his fighting spirit. And thank God Strange hadn’t fallen too far down that Masonic rabbit hole. Still, they were far from safe. No matter what Morse might try and tell him.

Anxiety had mixed in with Morse’s false confidence. Max willed himself not to misinterpret it. Certainly, they had come a long way from that first meeting over a dead body. He was quite sure that they had surpassed _colleagues_ and could quite safely be called _friends_. Max rarely bothered to look behind that tightly sealed door in his soul, the one where he squirreled away the red-gold flare of Morse’s hair in late afternoon sun and the delicate way his fingers moved. No good could come from opening that hoard; no good had _ever_ come from it.

But the cold, painful night he had spent had worn away Max’s defenses. The frightened tone to Morse’s voice had started to chip away at the door. And the animosity in the air that surrounded them threatened to dissolve the last of his precious defenses. Max cursed his humanity, and tried to focus on the scene before him.

The way Morse kept pressing, insisting on knowing the answers-- _damn_ him and his need to be right. There was a dangerous edge to Jago’s voice, one that Morse seemed blind to, as always. Jago wasn’t about to lose, wasn’t about to find himself cowed by the show of support standing just behind Morse. Max listened to the man growl out his plans and prayed--to whom, he wasn’t sure--that Morse had back up. That something, _anything_ would come between Jago and Morse. 

“A falling out of corrupt coppers.” Max shivered at the hatred dripping from Jago’s words. “And I settled the last man standing.”

The world seemed to come into an unnatural sharpness as Max focused on the gun that was pointed at Morse. He heard the tell-tale _click_ as Jago cocked the weapon. Max could see the way Thursday stiffened, his face hardening into a mask of fear. Morse’s eyes darted to the side and locked with Max’s. For a second--one single, solitary moment, something seemed to flicker across Morse’s face. Max couldn’t read it. Hell, he didn’t _want_ to read it, didn’t want to know what Morse was trying to say to him. He didn’t want to find out he was wrong. Not right now.

Then the sound of a gunshot ripped through the air and tore Max’s barriers to pieces.

* * *

In his career, Max DeBryn had often pieced together the final moments of those who found their way into his morgue. He had read the fear and pain and terror in the way they were found, in the way their faces and fingers and arms had frozen. He had rebuilt those moments of horror for the police, walking them through those steps.He had been there for family identification, as well. Watched as loved one’s faces crumpled when they realized the truth. He’d even tried to comfort a few who had been at the scene, watched it all unfold.

Never had he wanted to trade places with them. Never had he wondered what that might be like, to watch someone you knew fold under the impact of a bullet. Never had he thought how horrifying it might be to see the pain and fear flash across their faces.

Yet here he was.

Max cursed the sudden clarity that seemed to descend upon him. He didn’t want to see this, didn’t want to _know_. If they had to die, all of them, why did Jago have to pick _Morse_ first? Why did he have to aim his gun at _Morse’s_ blue coat? Why did he have to pull that trigger, sending such a tiny piece of lead to bury itself in _Morse’s_ chest? 

Max felt his carefully constructed walls shatter as Morse staggered backwards. Every quote they had traded, every half-glance across a crime scene, every not-quite-there touch between them suddenly seemed to flood through Max’s blood. He was bleeding memories, freely and wantonly, as Morse collapsed.

Thursday lurched forwards to catch him. The older copper’s face contorted in rage and fear as he lowered Morse to the ground. His shaking hands tore at Morse’s coat and suit jacket. Max _felt_ the curse that fell from Thursday’s lips. Morse’s shirt was stained with red--his precious lifeblood leaking across the pale blue fabric. Morse moved feebly, his movements awkward and stilted like a newborn foal.

Vaguely, Max heard Bright’s strident voice and Strange’s bellowing, both set to a background of sirens. Men moved and lights flashed, but Max ignored it all. His entire being was focused on the two men sprawled in that cursed mud. He had never seen grief in action before, never seen the dawning of despair on Thursday’s face as he held tightly to Morse. 

It felt to Max as if he were watching some movie or a horribly realistic nightmare. He could do nothing, nothing at all to stop the blood as it flowed from Morse. He couldn’t stop the pain from rippling across Morse’s face, couldn’t reach out to touch him or even call his name. He was powerless, and he hated it.

Then Thursday’s head jerked up, his eyes meeting DeBryn’s. _Doctor_ \--Max could almost hear Thursday’s voice. _Yes, yes--let me free. Let me help!_ Max wanted to scream at him, wanted to break the ropes that held him still. Then there were hands at his wrists, cutting through the rope. Max distantly registered Strange’s presence as Strange gently pulled the cloth from Max’s mouth. He might have thanked the man for freeing him, he really couldn’t remember. He only knew that he needed to reach Morse.

His legs were weak and his arms numb, but somehow he managed to stagger to Thursday’s side. His hands reached for Morse without his permission. 

_“Help him_ ,” Thursday rasped, emotion making the hard edges of his voice ragged and raw.

Max nodded. He slide one arm under Morse’s thin shoulders--why was he still so thin?--and tugged him from Thursday’s grasp. 

“Coat…” Max coughed, his dry throat fighting against his words. “I need to stop...the bleeding.”

Thursday yanked his coat off, handing it to Max. Max pressed it to Morse’s chest, wincing as Morse cried out. Thursday recoiled from Morse’s pain, emotions flitting across his face too quickly for Max to name.

“Doctor...I have to…” Thursday glanced towards the decrepit buildings, presumably where Jago and his associates had disappeared to. He looked lost, unable to help Morse but unwilling to leave him here on the ground.

“Go.” Max pulled Morse closer to him and locked eyes with Thursday. He swallowed thickly. “Stop them. Make them...make them pay.” One hand curled around Morse’s shoulder possessively. “I’ve got Morse.”

Thursday heaved himself to his feet. “Save him, Doctor. Please, I--” His voice broke, and Max had to look away from the sorrow in his eyes. “I haven’t done right by him. I can’t...he can’t…”

“Go, Inspector.” Max gathered as much of himself as he could collect. “You do your job, leave me to do mine.”

Thursday paused for only a moment to cast one last look down at Morse. Then he was gone, leaving Max to kneel there in the damp gravel, a lone soldier in the fight against death.

* * *

“Max.” Morse’s voice was weak and edged with pain. He struggled weakly against Max’s grip. “Max...you’re...you’re hurt. You...they hurt you...Max…”

Max closed his eyes for a moment, trying to lock his heart and soul up where they couldn’t betray him. He couldn’t do this, not now. Morse was vulnerable--Max shied away from the word, it didn’t belong in the same sentence as _Morse_ \--and Morse was _dying._ Max had no business letting his emotions get the better of him--they never had before, and he would be _damned_ if it happened now.

“I’m a fair sight better than you,” Max quipped. He did his best to glare at Morse, but he knew it was a pale shadow of their usual banter.

Morse offered him a weak grin anyhow. “Was meant to...rescue you. Not...t’other way ‘round.” Morse gave a strangled laugh. It quickly devolved into a wet cough, and Max felt ice form in his veins. 

“None of that, now,” Max chided. He tried to ignore the red stain that dribbled from Morse’s lips. He didn’t quite succeed. “Dammit, Morse!” Max looked away from the sight, trying to find paramedics somewhere in the chaos that seemed to move about them. _Nothing_. 

When Max looked back down at Morse, he found himself staring directly into Morse’s ice-blue eyes. Morse held his gaze for a moment, before turning his head away with a sigh. Max felt his heart drop, until he realized that Morse had curled _into_ Max, his face gently brushing against Max’s shoulder. 

“Max,” Morse murmured, another soft sigh escaping. It felt like a caress against Max’s tattered soul. Morse took a breath, his next words coming out in a gentle whisper. “I never told you...should have. Wasn’t...brave enough.”

Max shook his head. He pressed his hand harder into Morse’s chest, ignoring the way his hand was already turning red. “Shhh, Morse. Just...don’t talk.”

Morse grunted against Max’s chest. He pulled back, craning his neck to see Max. “No. Max, I have to. I...Max, it’s my fault.” Morse’s words were so faint, Max could barely hear them. There was a desperate quality to the way Morse spoke, and Max wished he could make Morse stop. But he was frozen, one hand trying to keep Morse alive and the other pulling Morse close in a way he never would have dared before. 

“I don’t know...how they guessed.” Morse swallowed thickly. “I never let on. I didn’t...couldn’t risk it. They knew, Max….I don’t...I don’t know how.” Morse’s eyes bored into Max, willing him to understand. Max didn’t, _couldn’t_ understand. “They took you...because of me. They knew...I don’t know how, Max...they knew.” Morse’s words ended on an exhale, and he buried his face in Max’s jumper. 

Max felt time freeze around him. Morse couldn’t mean _that_ , he couldn’t. Jago’s crew had taken him because of the role he played in Binks’ autopsy. That they had managed to lure Morse to him had just been a bonus. Right?

Cold fingers crawled over Max’s hand, startling him. He blinked, staring down at the way Morse’s long fingers covered his own blood-stained hand. Max felt those fingers squeeze his hand weakly. His breath stuttered.

“Max…” Morse’s whisper was pained, but not from the bullet. Max glanced down at Morse; his eyes were glazed over as they stared up at Max. “‘m sorry. Shouldn’t, but...doesn’t matter now.” Morse’s eyes fluttered closed, and Max felt panic bubble up inside him.

“Morse. Morse! Look at me.” Max shook him gently. “C’mon, man, stay...stay with me. Morse?” Those blue eyes finally opened, and Max breathed a sigh of relief.

“Max.” Morse groaned. “Max, I...I have to…tell you...Max…” Morse’s head lolled to one side as his chest began heaving with the effort to gain air. His brows knitted together in frustration. He couldn’t get the words out, couldn’t find the breath to say what he wanted to say. “Max...I...Max…”

Max heard him anyhow. He could see the truth in Morse’s eyes, in the way his body angled towards Max, in the way his fingers twitched at Max’s hand. He heard it in the rattle at the back of Morse’s throat, and in the gentleness in his whisper. He only wondered how he had missed it so long. 

He was a doctor, a _pathologist_. He was used to reading clues and deciphering these puzzles. Had he really missed _this_ just because he was so determined to keep his own wants and needs locked away? Had he been so distracted with trying to keep his own emotions in check that he failed to see what was right in front of him?

Max cursed himself, his own stubbornness, his own reticence, his own willingness to hide behind quips and barbs and veiled literary references. And then he freed his hand, only to lay it against the side of Morse’s face.

“Shhh, Morse,” Max crooned. His thumb stroked across Morse’s cheek. Morse leaned into him, and Max felt his heart shatter. “I know, Morse, I know.” Morse’s eyes widened, and Max could read the fear and the question there.

_You knew, and yet you were silent?_

“Not until now, God help me,” Max whispered. “But I know now, Morse, I know now.” He allowed himself to brush his fingers through Morse’s hair, just once. Morse’s lips quirked in the barest hint of a smile.

“Max…”

Max felt the finality in the breathlessness of the word. Fear stabbed into him, pounding out a rhythm against his throbbing temples. “Morse? Morse!”

Morse met his eyes for one endless moment, and then he was gone.


	2. If I Have to Crawl Upon the Floor, Come Crashing Through Your Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this chapter, you ask? Oh, nothing much. Just some very sad, very angsty introspection of one very gay, very sad Max DeBryn. I'm sorry in advance?
> 
> Warning: features mentions of period-typical homophobic thinking, as viewed from a gay man's perspective.

Gone. Morse was _gone_. Max had seen the light dim in his eyes, had felt his body give out, had heard him take his last rattling breath. 

Endeavour Morse was _gone_. Dead. And his dying words had been for Max, and Max alone. How exactly was he supposed to live with that? How was he supposed to make sense of the fact that Morse’s last thoughts, his last words, had been of Max? Morse could have said anything in those moments, could have asked for Inspector Thursday, could have cried out for his mother, could have drifted off in the stony silence in which he lived. But he had forced air into his bleeding lungs, forced words out of his burning throat, just to call out for Max. Just to...just to…

_To tell Max that Morse loved him?_

It wasn’t something Max could comprehend, not right now. Too many thoughts and emotions and sounds swirled around in his mind. Sirens and voices and the sounds of hospitals surrounded Max, ripped and tore at his already tattered nerves. Max stared at his hands, wondering when they had been washed. For that matter, when had he changed his clothes? He prodded gently at the bandage on his head, wondering who had dressed the wound?

Max raised his head. Hospital, he was in the hospital. Settled in some chair in some half-secluded waiting room. Who had deposited him here? What did they think he was waiting for? Morse was dead. Max himself clearly had no greater physical wounds, or they would have put him in a bed. He tried to think, tried to recall what had happened around him since Morse had died in his arms. He vaguely remembered being led to an ambulance, being poked at and prodded and questioned. Someone must have seen to him, he just couldn’t remember who.

Max felt warmth pressed into his hands. He blinked, found himself staring at a warm cup of hospital tea. Who... _oh._

“Inspector.” Max fumbled for words. What exactly was there to say? _I’m sorry your bagman was murdered trying to save me?_ It felt dull, lifeless. Besides that, Max felt resentment burning somewhere within him. Thursday had all but abandoned Morse these last months. He was at least partly to blame for this.

Max couldn’t bring himself to voice any of it. Thursday would grieve, and surely he had a right to. His mistakes hadn’t warranted _this_ as punishment. Instead, Max just nodded his thanks and took a sip of the scalding liquid.

Thursday thumped into the chair next to Max with a heavy sigh. “He’ll...they said he’ll be in surgery for some time. To fix the damage. Too soon to tell.”

Max froze, the cup of tea lapping against his open mouth. “Wh--what?” he finally managed to sputter.

Thursday’s eyes widened in horror. “Did they not tell you?” Max shook his head dumbly. Thursday’s face darkened, and Max could see grief and pain lingering in his eyes. “They got him back, Morse. Got him to the ambulance in time.” Thursday cleared his throat. “Said you saved him, kept him from bleeding out.”

Max just gaped at Thursday. He remembered none of this. The only memory he had was of Morse’s paling skin under his hand and the way Morse had tucked his head into Max’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Thursday said softly. “I know...I know I haven’t done right by him, or any of you, these past months. I’d hoped to tell him myself.”

“He...Morse is…” Max shook his head, trying to gather his shattered sense of self back about him. “Jago’s bullet didn’t kill him?”

Thursday shook his head. “Very nearly, and they say the surgery will be difficult.” A flash of rage passed over Thursday’s face. “Jago’s dead.”

“Good.” Max couldn’t stop the emphatic, couldn’t even regret being so callous about another human life. It wasn’t like him to be so flippant, and even Thursday was shocked. But he couldn’t forgive, not today. There was too much, too much regret and hurt and pain and they didn’t even _know_ yet. 

Thursday took a deep breath. “We’ve just got to wait then.” 

“ _Time and tide will wait for no man,_ ” Max murmured. He stared into his tea for a moment longer. “ _But all men have to wait for time and tide._ ”

Thursday glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Morse always understood your references better than I.”

Max nodded. “That he does, Inspector. That he does.” He would not use the past tense. He _would not._

The two of them lapsed into a silence somewhere between companionable and tense, just waiting, waiting, _waiting._ Max thought he might go mad with the waiting, the thinking, the silence. He sipped his tea, trying to find some semblance of strength and normalcy from the tepid liquid. 

He failed.

* * *

It may have been hours, or it may have been merely minutes, but finally-- _finally_ \-- they were done waiting. A tired looking nurse informed them that DS Morse had come through surgery. Max felt his entire body deflate at the news, and he was never sure after how he managed to remain upright. Thursday was ushered back immediately, an Inspector’s right to see his man safe. Max was left to wait, still holding a half-full cup of tea now gone cold.

Hospital privileges and a well-known fondness for the prickly detective finally won out over visiting hours and _he needs his rest_. Max was glad of it; he didn’t think he would be able to rest until he’d seen Morse’s chest rise and fall with soothing regularity again. He needed to erase that last vision in his mind, of Morse’s still body and slack face. And blood.

Max never thought he would despise the sight of blood as much as he did in those moments, watching it leech from Morse. It was far too close to the sight he saw on his table every day. There was no set of circumstances, no universe in which he could reconcile the nervous energy that surrounded Morse with the motionless, lifeless body that Max had held in his arms. 

He needed to see Morse alive. Needed to hear the reassuring sound of his heart, the gentle whisper of his breath, needed to _know_. Max was a man who dealt in things that he could see and touch and _hold_. He didn’t believe in things invisible and supernatural. Didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits or some concept of _God_. He was a scientist, grounded in tangible facts. Max didn’t trust things that he couldn’t see, no matter how credible the source.

He needed to touch Morse, to know that his skin was still warm. Maybe then he could deal with the tangled knot in his chest. Maybe then he could forget the feel of ropes biting into his wrist and the cold, unforgiving surface of that van. Maybe then he could forget how his hand had been stained red. Maybe then he could _think_.

The nurse left him at the door of Morse’s room, hurrying away to more pressing matters. Max was grateful for the privacy and more grateful that Thursday had gone home for a shower and change of clothes. Max wasn’t one for public displays of emotions, preferring to keep everything tucked safely inside, save for what he allowed out in the form of well-timed literary references. Most people couldn’t see past the eccentricity of his words, didn’t bother to decipher what he meant. Well, other than Morse.

 _Morse._ Why did his thoughts keep circling back to Morse? Why couldn’t he put those traitorous emotions back into that locked room in which they’d remained for so long? He’d long ago come to terms with the fact that men like him couldn’t afford to let their passions show. He’d surrounded himself with his gardens and fishing poles and books, accepting that his comfort must come from such impersonal sources as these. He had learned to tuck away those images that made his pulse race and his heart long for more. 

But here he was, heart hammering too fast and too irregular, standing outside a hospital room, unable to rid himself of _Morse_. _Morse_ and the coltish awkwardness with which he’d first held himself, the unexpected intelligence hiding behind ill-fitting suits and a warrant card, the sorrow and sadness which seemed to weigh him down. _Morse_ and the strange grace that enveloped him when his fingers danced in time with some opera, the way his blue eyes lit up when he matched Max Housman for Housman, the small smile which curled about his lips when he allowed himself to be pleased, the deep honesty of his laugh whenever he relaxed enough for humor. 

Max cursed himself and the way that the past day had reduced him to this. He felt like a young man of barely 20 again, unable to understand why he shouldn’t be allowed the same liberties that his mates enjoyed with their female partners. _Get a grip, Max._

He squared his shoulders and pushed his way into the room.

Doctor and friend warred in him as he stood at the foot of Morse’s bed. _Doctor_ demanded to read the chart that hung there, demanded to know what damage had been done. _Friend_ \--or whatever cried out from deep inside him--begged to collapse into the chair beside Morse, begged to take his hand and just _feel_.

Doctor won out, as Max knew it must. His eyes skimmed over the chart, mind just barely interpreting the words. _Severe hemorrhage, left pneumothorax, fractured rib, clean entry and exit, cardiac arrest during surgery..._ Max froze there, eyes riveted to the words, reading them over and over again. He had lost Morse _twice_ . The man’s heart had stopped in his arms, and again on the operating table. Morse had _died_. 

Max hung the chart back on it’s hook, fingers too numb to register his actions. He felt himself move to stand next to Morse, though he didn’t remember deciding on any particular course of action. Max stood there, staring down at Morse, unable to do much more than _look_.

Morse’s chest rose and fell: regular, even, unhindered. His skin was tinged slightly with pink, not the blue-gray hue that Max had last seen on Morse. White, clean bandages criss-crossed his chest; no blood, no blood, _no blood_. 

With a suddenness that startled him, Max felt his knees give out. He collapsed into the chair behind him with a surprised grunt. His hands...Max held them out in front of him, staring at the way they shook. His hands never trembled like this, _never._ He clenched them into fists, buried them in his lap, stared at the way his knuckles turned white.

It seemed that here, in the quiet and artificial peace of the trauma ward, Max was destined to fall apart. His body failed him, protective adrenaline wearing off and leaving him with nothing more than memories and fear. He remembered the men in his lab. He remembered the look in their eyes. He remembered waking to a throbbing in his head and prickles of pain in his arms. He remembered fear--not for himself, but for Morse--as he listened to the men detail their plan. He remembered the feeling of relief at hearing Morse’s voice, followed by the sickening revelation that they were _alone_ . He remembered hearing the splashing of car tires in puddles, the calm voice of Inspector Thursday-- _alright, Morse?--_ and the defiant way Strange defended Morse-- _city men, first and last_. 

And then he remembered Morse’s face, twisting in pain as the bullet pierced his chest. He remembered the feel of Morse in his arms, the way Morse looked at him, the fear and longing in his eyes. Max remembered the way Morse had leaned into his touch, how his eyelids had fluttered closed in something so close to contentment. 

He remembered the feel of Morse as his body went limp, as his heart ceased to beat and his lungs no longer fought for air. He remembered how they pulled Morse’s limp body away from him. He remembered how he had just _let them_ , let them take his one shot at _something more_. He remembered how he had been left there, alone and empty handed, staring at the rusty stain on his hands and wondering if that was all he was to be allowed.

Max blinked, surprised to find his vision gone blurry. Was he crying? He hadn’t cried in ages, didn’t allow himself the weakness.

He _was_ crying, and even more surprising, he found that he didn’t mind. It seemed rather like the only thing one could do in a moment such as this. What was he to do, otherwise? He’d been snatched from his morgue, clubbed over the head, trussed up like a turkey and left out in the cool morning air as _bait_. That was likely enough to gain him clemency for a few tears. But beyond that…

Beyond that, Max had found that he had been lying to himself for years. He had pretended that he didn’t notice the sideways glances that Morse sent him, pretended that his skin didn’t prickle with fire when Morse happened to brush by him, pretended that he, Max DeBryn, didn’t _care_ . But he did, God help him, he _did_ care. All the trouble that he’d taken to sequester that side of him away, to make himself appear more _normal_ , to pretend that he was just like any other man, it had all been for naught. He’d gone and fallen for a man who belonged in a renaissance painting, who had a tongue sharper than a scalpel, who had the voice of an angel, and who, despite all odds, _had fallen for him_.

Max buried his face in his hands. What...what was he supposed to do now? What did one do when one found themself... _in love_ with a friend? Certainly, Max well knew how to find others whose preferences matched his. But those rendezvous were brief and hushed and never mentioned again. Those were about physical needs being met in a few quiet moments. Men like him...they didn’t--they _couldn’t_ \-- fall for someone, not really.

No. He was lying to himself, trying to take the coward’s way out. Men like him did, could, and _had_ fallen for someone. They had managed to carve lives for themselves out of the granite that was reality. They could find happiness in the arms of another. They _did_ love and were loved in return. They were far braver than he.

A slight rustle of bed sheets startled Max out of his melancholic mood. He glanced up to the bed and found himself pinned by crystal blue eyes.

 _Morse_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. I didn't intend for that to go the way it did, but Max rather insisted on having a crisis over this whole mess, and I thought I should let him. Besides, Emotional Introspection is my Genre.
> 
> Really, I think this chapter came out of me needed Max to rationalize this realization that he and Morse have had that seemed to come out of nowhere. I wanted him to wrestle with that and realize how much Morse means to him. I do intend on letting these two have a happy ending, but I want it to be realistic. And I'm trying to do that in like, under 10k words. Fingers crossed.
> 
> Comments are welcome and craved <3 Also, if you want to see anything specific happen (I'm looking at you, Ange...this is for you :) ) let me know!


	3. I've Forgotten What I Started Fighting For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings and salutations!  
> Apologies for the wait on this chapter. Max was being rather reticent and Morse is a wee bit drugged--they were giving me issues. However, I think I'm finally happy with the result!

Max knew what a deer must feel like, in the short moments before the flashing headlights of a car ended it’s confusion and terror. Morse’s blue eyes speared him with their intensity, despite the unfocused quality that spoke of morphine and pain. Morse stared at him, quite clearly confused and not entirely coherent. 

Max hitched himself forward in his seat so that Morse could see him easier. He opened his mouth, but found that he had no words. There were no quotes, no quips, no references that covered this. Nothing could encompass what the last twenty-four hours had held for him--the shock of being assaulted in his own morgue, the anger at Jago’s ignoble plans, the terror of seeing Morse die in front of him, the revelation of Morse’s feelings and his own. 

Beyond that, Max wasn’t even sure what he _wanted_ to say. He was far out of his element, sagging here in this hard plastic chair as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. He’d lost all of the things that kept him safe--his scalpels, his bow ties, his _glasses_...and it seemed that along with his armour, he’d lost his tongue. There was a reason Max DeBryn preferred the silence of his corpses to the conundrum of living patients, and this was it. 

Max DeBryn was not a man who wore his heart on his sleeve. He wasn’t the type of man to head ‘round to the pub after a particularly long day, to air his grievances with his fellow man. He preferred to retreat to his cottage and gardens, scotch and books, kitchen and fire. He sought out the solitude, the familiarity, some place where he could _think_ without being hassled for an answer or something clever. When life tossed him something that he couldn't puzzle out on stainless counter tops, Max hid. He was honest enough with himself to admit to that-- _hiding_. When something cut through his barriers and protections and witticisms, Max _ran_. He ran and hid in the safety of his own space, until he could heal enough to decide how much of his soul he would bare to the world. 

But here he was, barriers completely shredded, mind and body bruised and beaten, and he couldn’t run. He couldn’t hide, couldn’t leave Morse here alone, couldn’t retreat until he knew for sure that Morse would make it. Max didn’t regret the decisions that led him to be sitting here, now. He didn’t regret choosing Morse over his own gaping wounds. He did regret the fact that he had absolutely no idea what to say to the pale figure opposite him. 

Morse, however, had clearly reached quite a number of conclusions on his own, without Max’s input. Surprisingly, considering Morse’s rather brilliant mind--or perhaps less surprising, considering the quantity of morphine currently running through his veins-- he managed to get every single one horribly wrong.

“Max?” The word scraped across Morse’s throat, weak and raw and rough. Fear flashed across Morse’s face, and his fingers twitched on the bed sheets. “Max! Max...am I...they shot...me. Max, I’m...dead.” 

He said it with all of the conviction of one who never expected to wake up, and with all of the confidence of one well out of their mind with morphine. Max opened his mouth to reply, but Morse cut him off.

“Max! No, Max...not you...no!” Morse’s expression changed to one of horror. He shook his head violently on the pillows, a low, sick moan escaping him. “No, no, no, Max. Not you...I saved you...you...they _killed_ you... _bastards_...I’ll...Max, why…”

Morse’s murmuring devolved into incoherent curses interspersed with whimpers of pain and sorrow. By the time Max managed to piece together Morse’s slurred words-- _he thinks we’re both dead_ \-- he realized that Morse was _moving_. The bloody idiot was struggling to sit up-- his arms and legs were tangled in the sheets and his bandaged chest heaving with the effort to draw air.

Max’s physician’s training took over and he shot out of his seat.

“Morse! Morse, calm yourself.” Max pressed Morse back into the bed, one hand guiding him back down, and the other capturing one of Morse’s flailing hands before he could hurt himself further. “For heaven’s sake, Morse.”

The contact seemed to calm Morse. He froze, his gaze focused on their joined hands. He stared at them--long enough that Max thought perhaps he had misunderstood Morse’s dying confession--before looking up at Max in bewilderment.

“You’re...not a ghost?”

Max let out a frustrated huff of air and collapsed back into his chair. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. It never occurred to him to let go of Morse.

“No, Morse,” Max sighed, “I am emphatically _not_ a ghost. Neither are you, I’m afraid.” 

Morse seemed to consider that, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. He drunkenly poked at himself with one finger a few times, before turning to Max with utter confusion in his eyes.

“I’m real. But...I died?” 

Were it any other day, any other situation, Max would have laughed delightedly at the child-like consternation on Morse’s face. But Morse _had_ died that day, and had only barely made it back to the side of the living. There wasn’t much Max could say but the truth.

“Yes, Morse.” He absentmindedly squeezed Morse’s hand. “You did. But doctors can do rather wonderful things these days. Surgeons, that is. When one lets them.” Max pursed his lips, managing to dig a touch of his old acerbity from somewhere deep inside. The familiarity might help Morse. “Instead of insisting on a pathologist’s needle.”

Max wasn’t quite sure exactly what part--if any-- of his chiding Morse actually understood. Morse continued to stare at him, his eyes too big and too blue and too concussed for Max’s liking. Finally he spoke, though Max was not at all encouraged by his words.

“I’m not...dead.” Morse seemed to be thinking very hard, until finally his face cleared. “That’s...why it hurts.”

Max felt as if Jago’s fist had struck him across the face again. Morse was in pain. Morse was in pain, and he’d nearly _died_. For what? For Max? For George? _Christ_.

Max squeezed Morse’s hand again, this time intentionally. “Morse, let me go get a nurse. They can...they can help with the pain.” Max stood, hoping that by the time he returned he would figure out exactly what he was supposed to _say_ to Morse. He didn’t get very far, finding himself anchored to Morse.

Morse’s fingers had closed around Max’s hand, and the man was refusing to let go. When Max turned, he found Morse smiling up at him, a fond-- albeit _goofy--_ smile.

“Max.” The rasp of Morse’s voice made Max wince; the man needed morphine and water. “Always...there for me.” 

Morse tugged weakly at Max’s hand: _come closer_. Those blue eyes glared at Max until he complied, nearly leaning over Morse in order to make sense of his whispered words.

“Always, Max.” There was sincerity there, underneath the drunken smile; something honest and dark lurking in Morse’s pain-glazed eyes. Max couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it was just the morphine talking, now. “Even...when no one...cared. You did. Thank you.” Morse’s smile was softer this time, almost genuine. 

“Morse.” Max picked up Morse’s hand, wrapping it between both of his. Emotions clogged up his throat, too many for him to count, all clamouring for attention. Even if he knew what it was he wanted-- _needed_ \-- to say, how was he supposed to say it? Would Morse even remember? 

Morse’s hand tightened on Max’s suddenly, breaking Max from his fog. A low groan escaped Morse, and Max felt his heart thud painfully at the sound. Morse’s face was wrinkled in pain again. _Damn it._ What kind of a doctor did he call himself, getting caught up in such inconsequential things as _emotions._ Morse had been _shot_ in the _chest_. He’d nearly died. He needed a doctor--a doctor of the _living_ \--and he needed one _now._

“Morse, stay put.” Max waited until Morse was staring up at him, confused but somewhat more focused. “You need a doctor. I won’t go far, just into the hallway. Alright?” He waited until Morse nodded--and a moment longer to make sure the man actually _understood_ \--before gently disentangling himself from Morse. 

Max found a nurse, who immediately went scurrying away to find a doctor. Adrift in the halls, with no idea where he was supposed to go or what he was supposed to be doing, Max found himself being pulled back to Morse’s room. He shouldn’t leave the man alone, knowing both how much Morse hated hospitals and how utterly confused he had been. 

Morse was still staring at the door, looking completely lost and confused, when Max slipped back into the room. Those blue eyes-- _why were they so blue?--_ snapped immediately to Max, suspicion melting into something far too soft for Max to name as recognition caught up to Morse.

“Max.” Morse’s ragged whisper closed the gap between them and chipped a bit more off of Max’s heart. A pale hand twitched on the white sheets, and Max found himself reaching for it before even realizing that he had crossed the room. 

“You’re alright, Morse.” Max grasped Morse’s hand with a tenderness he hadn’t realized he possessed. 

“Max...Max, I want to...can I go home?”

Distantly, Max registered that he quite possibly _could_ have stopped himself from reaching out and brushing a hand through Morse’s curls. But there seemed very little reason to resist, not when Morse leaned into his touch like a frightened cat seeking shelter, and especially not when the soft texture seemed to settle some of the unease that was roiling through Max’s blood. 

Morse was alive and Morse was _safe_. Whatever else came out of this disaster--for good or for bad--at least Max could sleep tonight with the feel of Morse’s warm hand in his and the memory of that unruly red-brown hair under his fingers. If he carried with him the contented way that Morse’s head followed his hand, no one else had to know. 

“No, Morse,” Max murmured. “You’ve got to let the doctors take care of you. You...Morse, you…” Max stumbled, cursing the words that refused to come to his tongue. Finally he gave up, shoulders sagging in defeat. “You nearly died, Morse.”

The words came out whispered, with far more emotion tucked behind them than Max was comfortable sharing. Ever. The day had been too hard, too long, and too much. He couldn’t keep it in, and in that precise moment, he didn’t care. He didn’t care what Morse heard in his voice, didn’t care if the man managed to read past his words and see the meaning behind them. For once in his life, he wasn’t going to censor what he said, make sure it was beyond reproof or suspicion. Morse deserved more than veiled comments tonight.

Morse blinked wearily up at him for a long moment. Then he let out a soft sigh and tucked his head closer to Max’s hand.

“‘m alright, Max. Still here.” His fingers twitched weakly around Max’s. “Max...stay with me? Please?”

Max stared down at Morse, shock plain on his face. Morse’s eyes were closed, and he lay angled towards Max, one hand curled possessive around Max’s own hand. Morse twitched a bit at the silence.

“Just...till ‘m asleep? Want to...know you’re safe.”

Max could hear the doctor’s voice in the hall, his shoes beating out a tempo against the tiles. He glanced quickly at the door, gauging the time. Then he shook his head.

They’d both very nearly died today. He could afford this risk, certainly.

Max bent down over Morse, letting his hand wander over Morse’s hair once again.

“I’ll stay, Morse. I’ll stay right here.” Before he could change his mind, Max brushed his lips softly over Morse’s temple--a barely there kiss.

Morse must have felt it though, because his lips twitched into a smile.

“Love you...Max,” he murmured softly.

Max swallowed the lump in his throat. The staccato beat had nearly reached the door.

 _In for a penny,_ Max thought. He leaned closer to Morse’s, lips barely moving as he softly whispered into Morse’s ear.

“And I you, Morse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I add another chapter? Yes.  
> Are you surprised? _You shouldn't be._ This is what I do...  
> I decided the boys needed to actually have a conversation, and there's no way that's happening in hospital, or in any sort of normal fashion, because it's Morse and Max...
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me :) As always, comments are appreciated because I love hearing from you all and also...it's been a rough few days and you're thoughts always make me smile! I'll be back soon!


	4. Time to Bring this Ship into the Shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max shouldn't be avoiding Morse, he really shouldn't. But he can't bring himself to ask, _did you mean it?_
> 
> _Until Morse shows up at his door with an apology._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look, I finished it!

To be perfectly honest, Max was expecting Morse to show up on his doorstep. Just not today. Not carrying a paper satchel shaped suspiciously like alcohol. And most certainly not looking  _ that nervous _ .

Max hadn’t meant to avoid Morse after that night. It had just...happened. Every time he had tried to pop in to visit, someone else had been there. Or Morse had been asleep. 

Or Max had tiptoed past the door upon finding no one else there.

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say, really. How is one supposed to respond when their colleague admits to  _ being in love with them? _ It wasn’t a situation Max had ever faced before, and he wasn’t one for rushing headfirst into unknown waters. One tended to get drowned if one did that while fishing, and he wasn’t about to find out what might happen in matters such as these. 

So while he wasn’t surprised that it was Morse who sought him out, rather than the other way around, he was most certainly surprised at the timing.

“Morse!” 

Morse stared at him for a moment, as if he forgot that one usually offered an explanation for why they were standing on another’s front steps at a quarter past six in the evening. Too many emotions swirled in his eyes for Max to decipher; the man’s face was unreadable.

“Max.”

Not much to go on, that.

“I wasn’t aware you were getting out today.”  _ Smooth, Max. _

“They let me out early on good behavior.” Morse flashed him a wry half-smile that really shouldn’t have made Max’s heart stutter. “Listen, Max.” Morse cleared his throat nervously. “Can I come in? We should...I’ve got something to say, and I’d rather not...out here.”

_ Invite the man in, you idiot. _

“Certainly!” Max stepped out of the way, allowing Morse to pass through before gently shutting the door behind him. He fiddled with the lock for a moment, trying to steady the unruly fluttering of his heart. 

When he turned around, Morse was awkwardly holding out a bottle of scotch-- _ rather good scotch _ \-- in front of him.

“A peace offering.”

Max took the bottle, glancing up at Morse. “I wasn’t aware we’d had a quarrel.” 

Morse’s face twisted with something Max rather wished he wouldn’t see again. He ran a hand through his hair, and Max tried not to remember how soft those curls were. 

“It’s just...I think that I...oh, bollocks.” Morse shook his head and heaved a frustrated sigh. He fidgeted nervously with his coat collar for a moment before continuing. “I don’t remember much, very clearly. But I...I think I said some things.” He cleared his throat, eyes studying everything but  _ Max _ . “I think I might have...crossed a line. And I don’t...didn’t...I’d rather not.”

Morse scrubbed a hand over his face. “Damn it. Look, Max.” Max found himself pinned by those blue eyes and found he couldn’t  _ breathe. _ “You’re one of the few people I trust. I don’t...I’d hate to ruin whatever we have. I just...I shouldn’t have said. And I’m sorry. Will you...can we drink...to forget?” He nodded at the bottle in Max’s hands.

_ Forget. _

Morse was asking him to forget those words, the look in Morse’s eyes, the way Morse’s hand felt in his, the way Morse had slurred  _ I love you _ . He was asking Max to lock back up the flood of memories and feelings and  _ emotions _ that those horrifying moments had unlocked, asking Max to build back up the walls that had come crumbling down when he held Morse’s failing body in his arms.

_ No. _

But did Morse want that? Were those words, those moments, those things Max thought he saw in Morse’s eyes--were those all just products of the situation, symptoms of a lonely man’s death?

“Max.” Morse was still looking at him, and there was a wildness in his eyes now, desperation. “Look...when a man’s dying he...he says things. Things he wouldn’t say otherwise.” Morse shifted uneasily on his feet. “I don’t want this...I don’t want to lose you, as a friend. Please.”

_ Man up, Max. _

Max took a few steps towards Morse, one step closer than was proper. He peered up at Morse, head canted to one side.

“Did you mean it?”

Morse’s face drained of color--and he hadn’t had much to begin with. He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat and turned his head away from Max. 

“Max, don’t ask me that. Please.”

Max laid his hand on Morse’s arm. Morse started, staring at Max’s hand as if it might bite him.

“If you’re apologizing, I think I have the right to know. Did you mean it?”

Morse swallowed. “I can’t...Max.” His voice was faint, his eyes wide and  _ frightened. _

Somewhere in the next few heartbeats, Max made a decision. He could see the truth in Morse’s eyes, the truth of what had passed between them in those moments. He knew that if he let Morse walk away, he would never get him back, never run his fingers through those curls, never find out what his lips felt like. 

He’d been running from  _ this _ for so long, and yet it seemed to him to be the easiest choice to make, here, now, in the twilight of his own home.

“Please.” Morse’s voice was low and pleading. “Don’t…”

Max closed the distance between them and kissed him.

Had it not been for the fear that still prickled under his skin, he might have simply brushed their lips together. But he needed Morse to know, needed to wipe that kicked look off of Morse’s face, needed to  _ feel _ Morse. So he snaked one hand up to cup the side of Morse’s face, another to hold him in place at his waist. Morse tensed against him--for only a moment, and then he was kissing back, and  _ oh. _

Morse kissed the way he did everything else--with a single minded passion that abandoned all attempts at sanity. His hands bunched in Max’s jumper, pulling him closer, as if he were afraid that Max might change his mind. As if he would, as if he could turn away from the feel of Morse’s lips on his, the slight sting of stubble on his cheek, the way Morse felt against him.

It went straight to his head, leaving him dizzy and drunk on  _ Morse. _

Finally--all too soon--Morse pulled back for breath.

“Max…” his eyes searched Max’s face.

He should be angry, or at least pretend to be angry. He should scold Morse for this, for bringing scotch to apologize, for dancing around  _ this _ . But he couldn’t very well chastise the man when  _ he himself _ had refused to bring the topic up.

“How much do you remember?” Max’s thumb skimmed along Morse’s cheekbone. 

Morse leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering closed. Max wondered when Morse had last been touched like this.

“I remember...I was too honest.” The words were whispered against Max’s palm, punctuated with a soft kiss. “I think I said…”

“ _ I love you,” _ Max finished.

Morse’s eyes squeezed tightly together, a soft whimper escaping as he nodded.

“Do you remember what happened after?”

Morse shook his head. He tucked his chin to his chest, as if expecting Max to shove him away.

“ _ And I you, Morse.” _

Startled blue eyes stared into Max’s soul again.  _ “What?!” _

“I’d rather not forget, if it's all the same to you.” Max pressed a chaste kiss to Morse’s parted lips. His eyes wandered up to Morse’s hair, his fingers following the same path. 

“You...you’re not... _ Max.” _

_ “Ask me no more, for I fear I should reply.”  _ Max whispered. His fingers tangled in Morse’s hair, and he pulled Morse down.

And kissed him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was struggling with this last chapter--in addition to just struggling in general--but suddenly my brain unclogged and this was born. I hope it was a satisfactory ending to this--my very first Max/Morse story.
> 
> If you liked, I'd love to hear from you :) <3 Writer brain has been on hiatus, and is sluggishly returning to the land of the living. It would appreciate feedback to keep it going.

**Author's Note:**

> ...sorry to uh, leave y'all there. I'm on Christmas break finally, so I hope to get a good bit of writing in and get every one off of all the cliffhangers that I left out there. Pls don't hate me for starting another WIP I just...get excited and then impulse post and whoops. *nervous laughter*
> 
> Also, sincerest apologies if Max is OOC. I really...he intimidates me and I'm so afraid of messing him up. But hopefully this was at least half decent?


End file.
